


Before We Fall

by SongOfTheLostSea, SpiritFox



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Argon loves video games, Brother conflict, Caranthir probably wants to kill his brothers half the time, Caranthir spends too much time on his computer, F/M, Fingon and Maedhros are adorable, Fingon falls asleep to music, Fingon is a writer, Fingon is failing at life, Fingon needs hugs, Fingon needs to clean his apartment, Finrod is a cinnamon roll, Finrod obsesses over redecorating, Finwëans take the modern world by storm, Forbidden Love, M/M, Maedhros is a perfectionist, Maedhros is a psychologist, Maglor and Maedhros love their cats despite their devious behaviour, Maglor sings too much, Puppy Huan, Silmarillion in modern times, Turgon Finrod and Caranthir are graduating high school
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-26 21:41:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9923291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SongOfTheLostSea/pseuds/SongOfTheLostSea, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpiritFox/pseuds/SpiritFox
Summary: When 21 year old Fingon finds himself failing his classes, especially his major in writing, he begins slowly sinking into despair. There’s only one chance left for him…The new crimson haired psychologist whose office he’d passed many times at the university but never entered. Could one phone call bring back the fire that died in his heart?





	1. Shifting Tides

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy ^_^

The sound of the clock ticking filled the room, entwining with the professor's monotonous voice as he droned on and on. But Fingon wasn’t listening. He sighed as he stared down at the cream sheet of paper in front of him, crossing his eyes so that the black lines smudged together on the page. A chair scraped back beside him and he glanced over, only to turn away when his sapphire eyes pieced together the familiar face. He buried his face in his hands, digging his fingers into his gently waved raven hair as he braced himself for the saccharine speech. He let out an almost imperceptible groan, closing his eyes and running over the words of a song he had heard on the radio that morning. Anything to distract himself. But he could not completely block out the honey-coated words.

“I’ve devoted many late nights to this idea, Professor; I’m honoured at your praise,” drawled his classmate, running his hand through his hair in what appeared to be a casual way.

The words clawed through his mind’s heavily guarded barriers before he even had a chance to raise arms against them. Fingon ground his teeth, feeling the words bite into his mind--shredding away any sense of self control he possessed. He couldn’t take this anymore. The obnoxious screech of his chair broke the respectful silence the class had fallen into as he ungraciously shoved it behind him. Ignoring the disbelieving stares of his classmates, Fingon grabbed his satchel, hastily shoving his textbooks in as he made for the door.

“Fingon,” warned the Professor in a dangerously low voice.

Fingon clearly heard his name cutting through the tense air, but he was already running. He stumbled through the tall arched doorframe, slamming the dark wooden door behind his retreating figure. His pounding footsteps bounced noisily off the hallway walls, but they could not drown out the signature roar of his professor yelling out his name. 

**.....**

With trembling hands, Fingon yanked open the silver door of his car, fumbling to put the keys into the ignition. Hot shame burned through him and he swallowed the angry lump building in his throat as he shoved the car door closed with more force than he had meant to. The engine roared to life and the car sped out of the parking lot, turning at the first intersection without waiting for the light. Fingon cranked up the radio, angrily fighting tears as he took the next exit onto the highway. “Wake Me Up” blared through the radio; it’s upbeat tune quarrelling with his foul mood. He did not care that it was the middle of the day. Screw the rest of his classes. 

Without really consciously making the decision, he kept to the main highway, ignoring the turnoff to his own apartment. Keeping his eyes steadily on the road, he drove on for another fifteen minutes. And for the first time in several weeks, he found himself instead swerving into the driveway of his parents’ house, standing proudly at the end of the cul-de-sac.

He parked the car and stepped out, rummaging in his bag for the keys as he walked up the well worn path to the front door. Slipping the key into the brass lock, he took a shaky breath and shoved the door open, stomping into the front entry-way. 

There was a startled intake of breath from the other side of the room, followed by a surprised, “Fingon?”

Fingon’s head jerked up, his eyes darting to the living room where his brother sat curled on the couch; absorbed in his notes.

“Why are you here? It’s the middle of the day; don’t you have class?” Turgon muttered, only half-paying attention to his brother. 

“Don’t you?” Fingon shot back, dumping his bag on the floor and slouching into the kitchen. He yanked open the refrigerator door and scanned its contents before grabbing a can of beer and a bowl of leftover chocolate pudding.

A frown crossed Turgon’s face as he watched Fingon from his distant spot on the couch.  “What the hell happened to you dude?” He asked in confusion, noting the beer and pudding. “You don’t usually visit us….In the day…” He paused and tilted his head to the side. “Or drink..”

“Nothing,” Fingon snapped and slammed the fridge door closed. He stalked back into the living room and flopped down in the chair furthest away from his brother. “And I do drink.” He popped open the beer and took a long sip, all but glowering at Turgon from across the room.

Turgon raised an eyebrow at Fingon and sighed heavily as he shifted his notes onto the space beside him. “I’ve known you for long enough to figure out when you’re upset,” He commented as he began counting on his fingers when he spoke again. “You’re twenty-one; you don’t live here.  Mother didn’t ask you over, and you aren’t one for spontaneous visits my dear brother. There’s a reason you’re here, and I know it you idiot.” Turgon stared jealously at the beer in his brother’s hand, before standing up and grabbing one for himself. “You could’ve at least gotten me one.” He kicked his feet up on the glass table, and leaned back against the couch. “You going to spill any time soon?”

Fingon clenched his fingers around his beer so tightly the metal bent, letting out a sharp cracking noise. “I told you, there is nothing going on,” he repeated, his voice dangerously close to shaking with anger. He took another deep sip of beer, drowning the sharp words that rose in his throat before they could emerge. Taking a deep breath, he lifted his head so that his eyes met Turgon’s expectant gaze. “Fine, okay. Say something did happen.  _ Maybe  _ I just got yelled at in front of the whole lecture theatre of students by a Professor who doesn’t even know how to teach.  _ Maybe  _ he’s spent his whole time praising my idiot classmate who thinks he can get away with plagiarism and fraud. A guy who has been  _ stealing  _ my work for the past semester!” Fingon took a sharp breath and gulped at his beer, his eyes flashing dangerously. He became aware of the sudden silence in the room and the way his brother was staring at him as if he had just announced he would be bringing home a horse to live in his apartment.

He took a few steadying breaths, and by the time he had finished speaking and managed to look up at his brother, he saw that most of the colour had vanished from Turgon’s tanned face. Fingon winced. It had been a long time since he had gotten this upset and Turgon was obviously shocked at seeing him so shaken up.

Turgon took a long swig of his beer before finally answering Fingon, his grey eyes flickering with raw emotion. “Fingon you need to get help. That idiot could get you kicked out of university, or worse! Why the hell haven’t you told me or anyone else earlier?!!”  He said, trying to keep his voice soft but utterly failing. He shook his head in disbelief and slipped his phone out of his pocket, flipping through his saved contacts. “You can’t let him get away with this. I’m calling mum.”  

“No, no you can’t!” Fingon gasped, reaching as if to snatch Turgon’s phone away before he realised he was on the opposite side of the room to him. He gripped the edge of the chair, digging his nails into the soft material. “You can't tell anyone, Turgon. Understand? Mum will just make a big deal out of it, and then there will be a complaint and I will have even more to deal with.” He took a low, shuddery breath, running his fingers through his hair. “I can barely keep up with the current situation. What if this makes it worse?”

Turgon took a shaky breath and twisted the can in his hand, the foamy amber liquid swirling inside. “I’m glad you told me, Fingon. But don’t make the mistake of bottling this up and letting it go. Promise me you won’t.” 

Fingon dug his teeth into the rim of his beer can, swallowing down his bitter words. “Fine, okay,” he said at last, licking his lips anxiously as he set the now-empty beer can aside. He needed to get out of there--go home, get in his car. Anything before he exploded. He stood up somewhat awkwardly, jerking his head towards the door. “I have to go.”

Turgon’s lips formed a faint frown, but he nodded to Fingon and stared sullenly at his notes. “Don’t do anything stupid, dude. I’ll be checking on you,” He muttered as he turned his attention back to studying for his upcoming exams.

Fingon didn’t reply. He was already at the door, grabbing his coat and slinging his bag over his shoulder. The door slammed closed with a little too much force, leaving Turgon alone in the house once more.

**.....**

A persistent ringing roused Fingon from where he had fallen asleep on his softly padded couch. He shoved a fluffy pillow out of his face and fumbled to grasp his phone on the table beside him. “Hello?” He murmured, yawning as he sleepily rubbed his eyes. 

“Fingon?” Anairë’s reply was soft and concerned, sounding as if she were speaking with her mouth very close to the phone.

“Oh, hey mum,” Fingon answered quietly. He pushed himself into a sitting position and let out a soft sigh. “Why are you calling?” 

There was a short pause on the other end of the line before his mother’s voice continued. “Turgon said you came by this afternoon...According to him you were pretty upset..” Another pause, and Fingon could hear voices in the background this time. “Are you okay, Fingon?”

Now it was Fingon’s turn to pause. He chewed his lip, wondering how much he could brush it over without his mother pressing for more information. It was evident Turgon had told her all about what had happened that afternoon and he was beginning to seriously regret going back to his family’s house. Perhaps if Aredhel had stormed in raging about some insane professor it would have seemed normal, but he had acted completely out of character and he knew it had already risen a lot of suspicion. 

A cough from the other side of the line brought his attention back to the present and he quickly swallowed, racing to come up with something in response to his mother’s question.  “Umm...yeah, I’m fine, Mum,” he said after a long pause. Too long a pause. He groaned internally. She was bound to suspect something. 

“Fingon…” Anairë began with a very audible sigh. “You do know that I can tell when you’re upset. Your voice is quivering,” she murmured with another soft sigh. “Your siblings are all here tonight for dinner, why don’t you join us?” 

Fingon swallowed, his breath hitching with anxiety. “Oh ah...well…” His mind was racing, trying to come up with an excuse. “I can’t,” he blurted out. “I have so much work to do...I just..Can’t come over tonight.” He squeezed his eyes shut, wincing at his unoriginality. But it was partially true...He  _ was  _ falling behind in all of his classes. Yet another thing to add to his towering list of worries.

“Finno…” Anairë repeated, her voice taut with the deadly warning only a mother can possess. She sighed faintly and added in a gentler tone, “I think you should come over anyway. I don’t want you to be alone if you are upset. Besides... We haven't seen you in ages…”

Several seconds dragged by before Fingon forced his mouth to spit out a muttered “Fine,” relenting to his mother’s wishes with a heavy sigh escaping his pale pink lips.

“Alright, I’ll see you tonight. And please hurry, Finno. You wouldn’t want your food to get cold…” Anairë hung up the phone and Fingon heard the soft beep as the receiver went dead on the other end. Fingon stared at the screen for a while before moving his fingers to switch off the phone; the satisfying click filling the silence. There was no way out of it now. He would have to go.


	2. Frost in the Night

The soft sound of the doorbell ringing throughout the house drifted to Fingon’s ears as he pressed his icy fingers against the bell. He shifted on his feet as he waited for the door to open, shoving his hands into his coat pockets as he bent his head against the icy wind that had picked up when the sun set. It wasn’t long before he heard shouts from inside and echoing footsteps as someone ran up to the door. It swung open to reveal his sister, Aredhel; a boisterous grin lighting up her face at the sight of him.

“You took long enough,” she teased, poking his side before whirling back into the house. “Mum might have had a fit if you took any longer.”

“Sorry…” Fingon apologised, stepping into the house and wiping his boots on the door mat. He shrugged off his coat and dumped it on the floor before following Aredhel into the kitchen. The room was light and cheerful with all of his family gathered around the large table, evidently awaiting his arrival before starting their meal. A warm pot of stew rested in the centre of the table, with creamy white bowls and silver cutlery set at each of the seven places.

Turgon was absorbed in another stack of notes due to his exams, with Argon sprawled on his chair, whining about a level he couldn’t pass in his video game. He didn’t miss the exaggerated eye rolls and annoyed looks Turgon cast at his younger brother every so often and Fingon felt the first faint touches of a smile appear on his face as he watched his siblings, walking over to sit next to Aredhel.

Anairë’s eyes lit up as they fell on her son and she sprung from her seat, sweeping him into a warm embrace. “Fingon…” she whispered, as if savoring each syllable of his name. “I’ve missed you.”

Fingon let the words wash over him, closing his eyes for a moment and breathing in the scent of his family’s warm kitchen. He hadn't realised how much he had missed being there until that moment, and he felt a sudden surge of emotion rise within him. Turgon would have laughed and told him he was being sentimental, but if he could, he would have captured that very moment and held it forever.

**.....**

“So…” Anairë started as she stacked up the dirty plates and set them in the sink. “Your father and I were thinking…” She glanced over at Fingolfin who gave her a wide eyed look that clearly said ‘don’t you dare drag me into this’, and sighed.

Fingon chewed his lip, suddenly nervous. Something was up. His parents never looked that uneasy.

“Umm...yeah?” he said uncertainly, his eyes shifting between the table and his mother’s steady gaze.

“Well…” Anairë continued, giving up on Fingolfin and returning her gaze to her son. “We could not help but notice that you have been quite stressed out lately, and Turgon said you are falling behind in your classes at school…”

Fingon was immediately on the defensive, whirling to face Turgon. “What?!”

“They dragged it out of me,” Turgon muttered in response, at least having the decency to look ashamed.

Fingon directed an accusing glare towards his brother, but turned away to face his parents with a guilt-ridden expression. He picked up an unused spoon left on the table, twirling it between his fingers uneasily. “I...I don’t know what you’re talking about...” he lied.

“Finno...If you’re failing your classes you have to talk to us about it. This is your future; don’t throw it away. We are worried about you...” Anairë pointed out, concern lacing through her words.

“Awkward…” Argon chimed in from the other side of the table, which was quickly followed by a squeal of pain that rang out when Turgon’s foot collided with his leg under the table.

“Shut up idiot.” Fingon heard Turgon hiss at their younger brother.

Fingon swallowed and stared down at his empty bowl, pushing the last traces of gravy around with the unused spoon he had found. “I’m not...failing,” he said, but there was a heavy pause before the final word. He could feel everyone staring at him now, even Aredhel who had been engrossed in texting her friend a few moments before.

Anairë sighed heavily, a touch of impatience evident in her expression. “Fingon this is enough. I think you should see someone concerning this... _Issue...”_ She paused and selected a pen from a drawer nearby and hurriedly wrote out a name and phone number on a yellow sticky note. She peeled it off and handing it to Fingon. “He’s a new psychologist at the university; we think you should set up an appointment with him as early as possible.”

Fingon looked shocked, his eyes wide and accusatory. “You think I need help? You think that there’s...there’s something wrong with me?”

A faint buzz had grown in his ears. Of anger, horror and disbelief. His parents knew everything. Suddenly the warm kitchen didn't seem so cosy anymore and he felt a familiar despair wash over him. Jumping to his feet, he grabbed the sticky note from the table and stomped to the door.

“Fingon wait…” Fingolfin called from the table, but Fingon ignored him. Grabbing his coat and boots, he pulled them on and pulled open the door; disappearing out into the night. A rush of icy air met him as the door clicked shut, but he welcomed the wind’s bitter embrace. His blue eyes scanned the faint words scribbled across the yellow parchment crumpled up in his hands and he sighed heavily. _Maedhros hm? I guess I’ll have to call him tonight. I don’t really have a choice..._

Fingon stalked over to his car parked in the driveway, brushing off the light dusting of snow that had covered the windshield while he was inside, before sinking into the driver’s seat. He sat in silence for a long while, watching the minutes tick by on the small clock set into the dashboard as he mulled over the events of the evening. _Damn it. A psychologist?!_ He balled his hand into a fist and slammed it against the dashboard. There was no way around it. He’d have to call.

Sighing, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and typed the number into the keypad. He took a deep breath and pressed the green call button before setting the phone in the cup-holder and turning out of his parents’ driveway.

The phone rang twice through the car’s Bluetooth speakers before someone picked up and Fingon heard a pleasant, “hello?”

“Ah...hi,” Fingon said after a long pause. He cleared his throat, listening to what sounded like shuffling papers on the other side of the line.

“Can I help you?” the voice asked, and Fingon could pick up a definite tone of concern.

“Oh...Yeah. I..I wanted to set up an appointment.”

“I’ll check my schedule,” Maedhros announced. There was a short pause as they both went silent; Fingon waiting tensely for an answer from him.

“When are you free? I have an opening at around seven tomorrow evening. Would that work?”

Fingon paused for a moment, considering his options. He really didn't want to go tomorrow. The whole idea of trying to talk about it with someone freaked him out, especially someone he'd only just met. On the other hand, if he delayed it he would have to face his mum’s questions…

“Ok, umm...yeah, that works for me,” Fingon said at last.

“Great. What’s your name?”

“Fingon,” he answered in a voice barely above a whisper, veering his silver car off the highway.

“Alright, can I have your email? Just in case I need to contact you. I promise this is the last question.” He laughed softly, and Fingon felt himself relax just a little.

“Oh yeah...sure, it's LostWriter21@gmail.com,” he mumbled, pulling up into the parking lot adjacent to his apartment building. He sighed and lifted his phone out of the cup-holder, unbuckling his seatbelt and stepping out of the car.

“Nice email,” Fingon heard him chuckle on the other end. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Fingon.”

There was a sharp click and the line went dead, leaving Fingon in silence as he trudged up the long flights of stairs that lead to his apartment. The little faded metal plate with the number 217 etched onto it smiled familiarly at him as he fumbled to unlock the cream door.

Outside it had begun to snow again and the cold wind sent flurries of powder against the frosted windowpanes. All of a sudden Fingon felt very alone. His small apartment had never felt so empty and cold.

With a heavy sigh, he removed his winter clothing and boots and dropped them haphazardly on the floor. It was cold without his jacket and he found himself shivering in the dark apartment. Grabbing a fleece blanket from the couch, he padded into his small bedroom and softly closed the door. A few clicks on his phone sent a soft instrumental music filtering through the speakers standing on his bedside table and he closed his eyes for a brief moment, letting the gentle melody wash over him.

Without bothering to brush his teeth, he undressed and flopped into bed, curling up under the covers and hugging the fleece blanket to his chest. His eyes eventually fluttered closed as the quiet music drifting from his speaker lulled him into a dreamless sleep.


	3. Falling Out of Time

Evening was descending on the town, gradually enveloping everything in its dark embrace. From the moment Fingon woke up, it was as if the world's sense of time had decided to shift.

Seconds turned to minutes which turned to hours, until the clock struck six with a quiet tick.

Fingon sighed and ran a tired hand down his face, closing heavy lids over dry and worn eyes. He had barely slept the night before. His mind had continued to spin in loops and twists late into the night. Anxiety about his classes, the appointment, and the previous night's conversation with his parents had shoved away any slim chance of sleeping. He groaned. One more hour and he would have to face that psychologist.

Fingon shifted in the chestnut chair that he had pushed up to his small kitchen table; re-adjusting to find a more comfortable position. The air was filled with strained anticipation and he was struggling to keep his mind from returning to the stress that continually plagued him. There was something he’d always hated about waiting. It held him captured in a state of nervous tension while anxiety burrowed into his mind like termites gnawing away at the supportive beams of a house. But the minutes were disappearing far too quickly, and seven o'clock was fast approaching.

**.....**

Taking a deep breath, Fingon raised his hand to the door; a few soft but clear knocks bringing the sound of footsteps hurrying to the entry-way. He sucked in his breath, his heart beginning to race in his chest as the door slid open in front of him and he found himself face to face with the figure belonging to the voice on the phone.

A tall man stood in the doorway, his eyes bright and cheerful and his lips pulled back in a warm smile. Gentle auburn waves fell across his back, the light tips just reaching past his broad shoulders. If there had been the bright touches of morning sunlight, Fingon imagined it would have glowed like a fire blazing in a warm hearth. He found himself almost at a loss for words as his azure eyes met orbs filled with raging storms of spring; layered with a sorrow that you wouldn’t notice if you’d only passed by him. A sorrow one couldn’t help but want to understand _why._  

“Fingon, right?” the man asked, extending his hand.

“Ah...yeah. I mean, yes, I am,” Fingon said hurriedly, taking the offered hand and shaking it lightly. “And you must be Maedhros.” He let out a sigh of relief, glad he had remembered the man’s name from the sticky note his mum had given him.

“Yes, please, come in,” Maedhros offered, ushering Fingon inside his office.

For a brief moment Fingon considered saying something had come up and he needed to reschedule, but before he could make up his mind he found himself being swept inside as the door clicked shut behind him.

“Take a seat,” Maedhros insisted gently.

Fingon nodded mutely and lowered himself down on the worn leather couch; shifting so he was taking up as little space as he could manage. He briefly glanced around the office, taking in the tidy desk with many stacks of paper piled neatly together, and the tall bookshelves filled with beautifully bound books organized in some complicated looking fashion. Fingon caught Maedhros smiling at him, and he hurriedly turned his focus away from his observations of the room.

“Alright, shall we begin?” Maedhros asked, settling down in a chair across from Fingon and reaching up to pull a coil-bound notebook from the table behind him. “You can begin anywhere--whatever you feel comfortable with. I’ll just listen.” Maedhros smiled at him--that same gentle, pleasant smile that spoke of deep understanding and compassion.

Fingon swallowed. “Umm...well,” he began, his mind racing. How was he supposed to talk about all of this? Where should he start?

“I’m failing…” he confessed helplessly, letting his hands drop listlessly into his lap. “I’m utterly failing...at _everything_ . What I don't understand is I never _did_ anything to him….Unless living counts.”

“Fingon?” Maedhros prompted, a flame of worry shivering in his eyes. “Is someone hurting you?”

“My work… Everything I had slaved over. Every little detail I perfected, every all-nighter I pulled several nights in a row, the pages I _cried_ over.” Fingon gritted his teeth, determined not to submit to the tears threatening to spill onto his pale cheeks. “He took it all.” His head snapped up to meet Maedhros’ gaze, his eyes flickering with accusation and the raw aching of hurt.

Maedhros watched Fingon silently, letting him speak without interruption.

It took a few minutes for Fingon to look up again, his cheeks pale and his blue eyes tired and strained. “I’m sorry…” he mumbled.

Maedhros shook his head, a look of gentle compassion reflected in his eyes. “Do not apologise. Can you tell me about this person? How is he stealing your work?”

“It has been going on for a few months now…” Fingon began, twisting the hem of his shirt around his finger. “There’s a guy in my class--Ethir. He was struggling, and I thought I could help him; tutor him until he caught up... I _wanted_ to help. But he started taking advantage of all of the time I spent on my assignments and before I knew it none of my work was my own anymore.

At first it wasn't so bad...he only copied a little from my work. A few assignments here and there. But then he started taking more and more and the Professor caught on. But of course he thought I was the one stealing and framed me for plagiarism.” Fingon paused, his chest rising as he took a quivering breath.

“I can’t keep my grades up like this. I have been getting zeros on practically all of the assignments required for that class. Not to mention my other classes. They aren't much better. I wouldn’t be surprised if my writing teacher “warned” the others that I plagiarise. They never listened to my side of the story! Because Valar forbid Ethir do wrong in his life. Everything is falling apart. I can’t keep going like this. I feel like I’m being torn down from every angle. I am exhausted all the time, but when I try to sleep, my mind keeps me awake with its constant worrying. And I just _can’t take it.”_

He broke off, breathing hard. Fingon stared up at Maedhros, shock slowly melting away from his mind and leaving him feeling cold and vulnerable. He had not meant to say all of that, but somehow as soon as the first few words had reluctantly left his lips, the rest had begun tumbling out; leaving him with no power to cease the chaotic words.

Maedhros was looking at him with a mixture of concern and surprise, although his expression was still filled with empathy. “No wonder you have been feeling so much stress. I’m glad you came to see me.” He smiled at Fingon to emphasise the statement. “It may seem as if you are drowning right now, but you _can_ get through this. I can help you.”

Fingon bit his lip, immediately growing wary again. “I don’t need your help,” he said stiffly, turning away. “I don’t want more pity and disappointed looks when they find out I failed all of my classes; even though I barely made it through the day…” He sniffed, suddenly very conscious that he was speaking to a virtual stranger.

“If you don’t want my help Fingon, there’s nothing I can do. But may I ask, why did you come here if not for help?” Maedhros asked, a slightly amused smile playing on his lips at Fingon’s sheer determination not to appear weak.

Fingon felt a flicker of anger rise within him and he swallowed, biting back the sharp words that stung his tongue. “I...ok, fine. Maybe...maybe I do need a little help.” He grit his teeth, forcing himself to meet Maedhros’ gaze. “I just...don’t know what to do.” He let the words hang in the air; tepid and naked in the still room. “I don’t even know who I am anymore.”


End file.
